For the past week I've been doing a lot of thinking and taking note of where I stand and where I stood 12 months ago. In other words I've been semi-melancholic for a few days now.
It's been a year since I literally almost drove myself into the ground, a year since I saw him last and now we've officially been apart longer than we were together. I wonder if a year from now I'll look on today the same way I think of a year ago - distant, knowing it hurt, but no longer able to fully taste how bad it was. Like an outsider looking in through a foggy window.
On moving on
My heart still isn't trying to hear it. I can feel myself rebuilding the walls slab by slab and I'm not really trying to stop it. A small part of me quietly hopes that in doing so, 20, 30, 50 years from now I can look back and say, "Good. My heart never hurt after that." Right now, any thoughts of sharing myself with someone else all feel half-way empty, robotic and cold. Doesn't make for much cuddling.
I've stopped asking when and why I haven't moved on and just accepted that it's because I just don't want to or at least I don't want to want to. So far, each glimmer of hope gets shot down by a fleet of flaming arrows. Self-sabotage at its finest.
Instead of risking and leaping, I'd rather cower and age until I make it safely to the other side. Alone and half-living perhaps, but intact.
Happy and sad to say that I'm growing quite used to it.